


satin finish

by boycoffin



Series: DIY or Die [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Banter, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Floor Sex, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Murder Husbands, Murderous Dirty Talk, Nipple Play, Orgasm Delay, Podfic & Podficced Works, Post-Finale, Praise Kink, Salty Will, Sartorial Destruction, Settled Down & Safe, Smut, Top Will, Wet & Messy, sorry folks you can't buy a plot at home depot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 14:22:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17664317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boycoffin/pseuds/boycoffin
Summary: Maybe ifHannibalhad been willing to put on grubby clothes and sweat through the afternoon at the top of a ladder, catastrophe might not have occurred.





	satin finish

**Author's Note:**

> [this is all echo's fault](https://twitter.com/alovecrime/status/1092012502995603459)
> 
> the paint is nontoxic don't @ me
> 
> here's the audio:  
> [gdrive](https://drive.google.com/file/d/15rlCmtENm6s1exIf9eht-ve-_skDpOjT/view?usp=sharing)  
> [filehosting](https://www.filehosting.org/file/details/779984/satin%20finish.mp3)

Will had wanted a simple A-frame ladder. He'd always made it work before. Sure, it meant leaning (sometimes a little uncomfortably, sometimes a little precariously) to reach the difficult spots. Sure, it meant getting a crick in his neck and an ache in his bad shoulder because he had to put the roller on an extension pole, which made leverage awkward. But an A-frame ladder would have been fine.

Not so, according to Hannibal. Safety first. What if Will fell and broke his neck? Hannibal would _never_ forgive himself, if Will fell and broke his neck. (Will reminded him that, considering his track record, Hannibal could very likely forgive himself for anything, but Hannibal acted as if he hadn't heard.) You can't use the wrong equipment for the job. You don't have to make do with whatever's available. Never settle for less than the best.

That's how Will ended up with this 40-pound multi-position goddamn adjustable _monstrosity_ of a ladder, with its big rotating goddamn hinge locks, and its incomprehensible instruction manual, and its complete lack of any useful places to set a paint tray or hang things off of it. It took Will half an hour, even _with_ the stupid manual, to figure out how to work one side of it. The other side took only half as long, but that's because the hinge lock didn't engage, the full length of the extension thundered out in all its aluminum glory and slammed Will in the throat, and he had to go apply an ample glass of whisky to the affected area.

But eventually, after a great deal of trial and error, and cursing and error, and further trial and cursing, Will got the angles right. Now he could paint the goddamn stairwell safely. If he'd painted it unsafely, it would have been done by now—primed and boxed in and with a double-coat and all. But no. Hannibal, in his wisdom, insisted that Will not get hurt. Because Hannibal, compassionate soul that he was, would _never_ want Will to come to harm, not even a little bit.

The idea of Will bonking his elbow, or stepping on a crack in the sidewalk, was doubtless enough to give Hannibal apprehensive indigestion. Keep Will Graham whole and happy and safe, that was the tip-top priority at all times. If anyone tried to insult, manipulate, incarcerate or eviscerate him, Hannibal would be the first to protest. If anyone so much as entertained a passing thought of sending not one but two bloodthirsty otherkin after him, Hannibal would lodge an official complaint through the proper channels. And, god help you, if you even implied that you might open Will's skull with a compact circular saw, Hannibal would have some _choice words_ to say about it.

Bastard.

Fortunately for Will, working himself up into a hearty sulk was conducive to accomplishing the task at hand. Repetitive strokes of the roller felt almost like slow-motion punches. Just funnel all that irritation into the wall. Don't think about the smug look on Hannibal's face over breakfast, or his remark about how prettily Will's neck bruise was blossoming, _From the right angle, it almost looks like a collar_ , _don't you think?_ Don't think about how much you wanted to lean across the table and flick him in the ear. Just… paint.

The primer had dried overnight, and today was the first coat of color. Rich, dark crimson with a hint of violet, like the fraction of an inch where the flesh of a plum meets the skin, or lips stained with wine. In another house it might have felt too dark, but not here; there was ample light from the high windows of the landing above, and the foyer below. For the moment, these windows were bare, but diaphanous curtains had been purchased to dress them, their gilded rods and holdbacks awaiting installation once the painting was complete.

Will wasn't good at picturing the future. Never had been, really. The past was fine, the past was _simple_. And he could look at the sketches and swatches and nod along like he could envision the results, but for him, it didn't come together in his mind until he could see it all in real life. Might be why he'd been so self-contained in the Wolf Trap house; he'd managed to put together one room, and couldn't figure out what to do with anything else. Who even owned enough _stuff_ to fill a house? Hannibal obviously did, and was perfectly capable of acquiring enough to fill a new one. He had a knack for details, things that would never have occurred to Will even if he sat down and brainstormed for ages:

Where do you put on your shoes in the morning? There should be a bench there. Where do you take them off at night? That's where you put the rack. Can you see a clock from every angle of the room? What if you need to set a glass down, or a book? Are there sufficient light sources so that every corner can be either cozily or brightly illuminated, depending upon your needs at the time? Do you ever want to have a drink in this room? Two smaller tables to either side are often better suited than a single large one in the middle. There should be a rug, maybe more than one. Place furniture diagonally now and then, you needn't _always_ abide by a grid, but don't go overboard—perhaps only once or twice throughout the house.

Walk the paths around everything in your mind, find out where you would bump into something in the dark, and accommodate that. Do you naturally turn left or right when exiting a room? There were sideboards, armoires, fiddly little spindle-legged cabinets that seemed to have no purpose other than holding a bottle of something inside and a sculpture on top. Don't be afraid to use more than one pattern of wallpaper. Don't turn up your nose at small art in a large frame. No wall should be entirely lacking in ornament, and to every surface was owed an appropriate trinket.

To be surrounded by so much beauty was luxurious and, to Will, a little ridiculous.

(He loved it, though.)

Hannibal was a planning mastermind. He knew precisely what everything was called, and how to procure it; he knew what they could accomplish themselves, and what would need a discreet professional's assistance; he could rearrange rooms in a dozen different iterations in his mind until he found the perfect fit. No moving the couch around because you realized the light would be in your eyes, no realizing that the bookcase wouldn't fit where you'd assumed it would. While Will was grateful for the ease with which Hannibal handled things, he also felt like Hannibal's preternatural competence took some of the fun out of it.

Maybe if _Hannibal_ had been willing to put on grubby clothes and sweat through the afternoon at the top of a ladder, catastrophe might not have occurred.

There was no shelf on the ladder, you see. There wasn't even a place for you to jam a shop rag, or hang your roll of painter's tape. This was a ladder designed for one thing, and one thing only: standing on the goddamn stairs. So Will did, his upper body twisted, holding the paint tray in one hand and using the roller in the other. If he needed to top up the tray, or wipe a drip from running down his arm, or get a drink of water, he had to walk backwards down the ladder (as one does) and then down several steps, with only one hand to steady himself. Underneath—and underfoot—was a starchy, thick, nine-foot-square canvas drop cloth that went out of its way to trip you up. It did an excellent job of protecting the flooring, which was beautiful, but in no way did it safeguard Will's dignity, which was already tenuous at best.

That was how Will ended up sprawled at the bottom of the stairs. Granted, the bottom of the stairs was only five steps from the foot of the ladder—which remained safe and sturdy, right where it ought to be, looking down on the wreckage and radiating a prideful smugness that made Will want to throw it out of the window—but still.

The paint tray had, in Will's descent, knocked its corner into a freshly-painted portion of the wall and spun from Will's hand. He watched in horror and helpless resignation as a great arc of paint flipped into the air, splattering him fully in the face and all down his shirt as he continued to tumble to the floor. His foot skidded on the drop cloth a second time as he tried to right himself, which dragged and tipped the gallon bucket of paint onto its side; it had one of those silicone pour-caps on it, but the stopper disengaged when it landed. As Will thudded onto his back in the stairwell and had the wind knocked out of him, he heard the distinctive _plub plub plub_ of paint leaving the spout, oozing thickly out across the canvas.

He lay there for a minute or so, listening to the faint sound of classical music from across the house, and ruminated on the vast expanse of terrible choices he'd made in his life.

Then he yelled, _'Fuck!'_

Footsteps approached from down the hall, and Hannibal emerged from the kitchen, immaculate as always, the crisp dove-grey sleeves of his shirt rolled up to just below the elbow. He had his white half-apron tied at his waist, and was drying his hands on a linen kitchen towel, surveying the scene.

Will lay in a tangle on the floor, paint spreading around him like he was losing gouts of blood. Up near the ceiling, the far wall bore a sweep of splattered paint. Hannibal looked down at Will, at the paint on his face and completely drenching his t-shirt, and there was a slight flicker of a smile in his eyes.

'Did you need something, Will?' he said.

Will glared up at him, fuming in silence.

'I heard a thump,' Hannibal went on.

'That would be the sound of my body hitting the floor,' said Will. He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe the paint from the lower half of his face, spitting a little to get it out of his mouth.

'I see,' said Hannibal. 'Is there anything I can do?'

The old bandanna had quickly lost absorbency in the wake of all that paint. 'Can I have that towel?'

Hannibal leaned to hand it to him, which was a mistake. Will got a corner of it, and the end of Hannibal's apron, quickly wrapped each round his hands to get a firm grip, and, catching him off-balance, dragged Hannibal to the floor. Hannibal lost his footing as the drop cloth skidded beneath him, and as soon as he was down, Will flipped him onto his back, straddling his waist to pin him, jerking the apron strings to untie them and toss it aside.

'Will, really,' said Hannibal, slightly out of breath but mostly from amusement. 'If you wanted my help, you need only have said.'

Will had a fistful of the back of his ruined shirt and was dragging it over his head. 'Fuck you,' he said, slightly muffled. Shirt off, there was a slick red trail of paint from his abdomen to his neck, and some had dragged back over his face, undoing his previous efforts.

'I appreciate all the work you've been doing,' Hannibal pointed out. He made no move to buck Will off or get away, which he absolutely could have. Paint dripped audibly from Will's hands, speckling the front of Hannibal's shirt, which was already smudged with it from the tussle.

'You might want to close your mouth,' said Will, and, eyes narrowed down at him, he began to wring out the sopping mess of his shirt, squeezing the paint onto Hannibal's chest.

'Thoughtful of you,' said Hannibal.

'Oh, not to keep paint out of it,' Will assured him. 'Just so you'd shut up.' And he placed his entire paint-slicked hand over Hannibal's face, leaving a red print before he dragged it away.

'Enjoying yourself?' said Hannibal, when he could. His eyes glimmered with mirth.

Will mussed Hannibal's hair, getting paint in that as well. 'I am _now_.' He had one hand in the center of Hannibal's chest, shirtfront in his grip, and used it to drag Hannibal up just enough to kiss him. There was a faint taste of paint on both their lips, but that hardly mattered.

'You owe me a shirt,' said Hannibal.

Will had just flung his wrung-out t-shirt aside with a splat, into the pool of paint that had slowed to a crawl, pressure no longer urging it forth. 'You can have that one.' He scooted back a bit, and started undoing Hannibal's buttons. 'I hate that ladder. I hate it _so much._ '

'I thought you might.'

'Why the hell did you insist we get that one, then?'

Hannibal gave him an amused look. 'It's made for an interesting weekend, hasn't it?'

Will continued to unfasten Hannibal's clothes. 'I've had to go up and down that thing,' he said, 'about a hundred times, and _backwards_ ,' he dragged down Hannibal's zipper, 'down the _stairs_ ,' he rucked down multiple layers to about mid-thigh, 'and you call that an interesting weekend?'

'For me, it was,' said Hannibal, arching a little into Will's touch. Will was gorgeous like this, disheveled and slightly sweaty and covered in what _could_ have been blood, in another light, on a different day. 'I got to watch.'

(From their position on the floor, Will caught sight of the particular angle at which a tall, heavy-framed mirror leaned against the opposite wall, waiting to be mounted; it reflected the kitchen doorway.)

Will reached over and dabbed two fingers into the paint, and drew them down Hannibal's chest. 'Admit it,' he said, 'my ass looks good in these jeans.'

'They're terrible jeans,' said Hannibal.

'I like them.' Will kissed him again, flicking his tongue against the sharp edge of Hannibal's teeth.

'You found them,' said Hannibal, a little breathlessly from Will's attentions, 'at a _yard sale_.'

'We can't all live like we've just stepped out of an exquisitely-tailored editorial photoshoot.'

'Yes, you can,' Hannibal pointed out, fingers hooked into Will's waistband, tugging a little as if to demonstrate how poorly they fit. 'We have the same tailor.'

'What, you'd be less offended if I'd ruined something _nice_?'

Hannibal looked put-upon. 'No, but you needn't have bought them at all.'

'And now they've got paint all down the front.' Will rocked against him, watching his expression. 'If you don't get your act together, I'll wear them out of the house.'

Hannibal's grip on Will's hips tightened a fraction. 'Please don't.'

'I'll go out back and get grass-stains on the knees, too, just grind it on in there so it never comes out.'

_'Anything_ but that,' said Hannibal, unable to keep from smiling. With every movement of Will's hips against his, he could feel how thoroughly Will was enjoying himself. Hannibal ran his fingertips along Will's thighs, the pulled-taut denim zinging beneath his nails. 'I never knew you had a penchant for cruelty, Will.'

'Payback.'

Hannibal reached up and wiped a droplet of paint from under Will's eye. When he spoke, his voice was a little darker, a little teasing. 'Such a harsh sentence. Have I truly wronged you to such an extent?'

'Oh, I'm not finished.'

It took some doing since Will didn't want to climb off him, but eventually Will got his jeans pushed down far enough for what he had in mind. 'Go on,' he said with a nod, 'my hands are too sticky. Wouldn't want to get paint on you.' The fact that Hannibal was already covered in it was immaterial.

'How considerate,' said Hannibal, taking Will's cock in his hand along with his own. 'It's a pity you hate the ladder so much, since you're going to have to repaint this side of the room.'

'I don't know, I kind of like it. Looks a little like cast-off spatter.' Will pressed forward into Hannibal's grasp. 'Maybe if we add some more, make it an accent wall—mmm, _that's_ it.'

'Speaking of which,' said Hannibal, then stopped to steady his breathing as Will gently plucked at his nipples. 'About that other night.'

Will smirked, and began to rub in circles with his thumbs. 'What about the other night?'

'I don't think I told you how ravishing you looked.'

Will had bitten his lip, eyes falling closed as Hannibal swept his thumb over the head of his cock, but now his lip slid free of his teeth once more. 'So tell me,' he said.

'I am telling you.' Hannibal kept stroking them both, watching the shifting pleasure in Will's face. 'The way you held him down, to the last—you were breathtaking, Will. I longed to touch you, but I dared not interrupt.'

'You have my permission to interrupt next time,' said Will, and dragged his nails down Hannibal's chest, their edges blunted with paint that was starting to dry. 'I was thinking about it, too.'

Hannibal hissed out a breath, and added a gentle turn of his wrist to his strokes, his palm a little slicker now than when they began. 'Were you?'

'I imagined what it would feel like,' said Will, softly, wetting his lower lip before he continued, 'if you had kissed me while he was still struggling to push me off.'

Hannibal's tempo stuttered slightly. _'Will_.'

'I could feel his pulse thundering away beneath my hands,' said Will, in that tempting, deliciously slow cadence he got when he knew he had Hannibal wrapped around his finger. 'All that heat, about to diminish. Those little sounds as life wound down to stillness. I wanted you to feel that with me, _through_ me.'

Hannibal let out a shaky breath. 'Yes.'

'The way you were watching me, the look on your face, I…' Will let his head fall back, and he rolled his hips, the slightest additional thrust forward. 'God, I wanted you to touch me. Don't get me wrong, I _love_ having your eyes on me—'

'But?'

'But then I kind of felt like I was doing all the work. And then the morning after, I started on the painting, and you've been conspicuously absent for that whole process.'

'I've been butchering the carcass,' Hannibal pointed out, but Will ignored that.

'And the damn fancy ladder you insisted on getting has been nothing but a _spectacular_ pain in the ass.' Will slid his hand up to gently cradle the base of Hannibal's throat; he knew where to apply pressure so that Hannibal could still breathe perfectly well, but would get that little rush, sparkles in his vision. 'Next time, come and kiss me.'

'Yes,' said Hannibal softly.

'You were missing out; I had a cut lip, and you didn't even get to taste.' There was a curl of mischief in his voice. 'Promise me won't hold back next time.'

'I promise.' It was barely above a whisper, and Hannibal's eyes had fallen closed.

Will put a hand over Hannibal's, and he went still. 'I _know_ you're close. Your mouth twitches a little in this particular way.'

(Will could see Hannibal's own pulse thundering in his neck, and had a few passing thoughts about it.)

'You don't get to come yet.' He adjusted the placement of Hannibal's hand for him. 'But I do.'

Hannibal let out a slow breath. 'Yes, Will.' He looked up at Will with reverence, coaxing him onwards with deft, luxuriously slow strokes.

'That's it,' Will murmured. He cupped Hannibal's face in one red hand, thumb skimming over his lips until Hannibal parted them a little with a flick of his tongue, and Will hooked his thumb briefly into the corner of his mouth, tilting Hannibal's head. 'You know what I like, don't you.' It wasn't a question, and Will loved how _clear_ Hannibal's reaction was, whenever he praised him.

'I love you, Will,' said Hannibal, on the end of a breath. There was color in his cheeks, and his pupils were blown out, even in the slant of golden sunlight that fell across the floor.

'And yet,' said Will, 'you're such a bastard.'

They both chuckled a little, but Will's laugh trailed off into a gasping moan as Hannibal quickened the pace of his strokes.

'You like that?' said Hannibal, though it was obvious he did.

'Don't stop, Hannibal.' Will's thighs were starting to tremble, and he pressed them around Hannibal more tightly, unable to stop himself from rocking his hips, chasing after Hannibal's touch. _'Ffffuck_ , that's so good—'

'You know,' said Hannibal, sounding conversational but nevertheless in awe of him, 'this color looks beautiful against your skin. That's partly why I chose it. Just a little darker than blood, with a little more blue. It reminds me of the night we fought the Dragon.'

(This was a familiar maneuver, but it never failed to get a reaction. Either of them, when they were so near the edge, could summon up full-body shivers of pleasure at the memory, with only the slightest mention. They hadn't admitted it directly—and, of course, it was many months afterward that they first touched as they did so often now—but they both privately considered that battle to be their first time.)

Will had a tendency to lose himself, and his breath became a stuttered, halting thing, held and then released only a little, not nearly enough.

'Please,' was all Hannibal had to say, and the rolling of Will's hips stilled as his cock pulsed in Hannibal's hand.

Will curled forward, hands on the floor on either side of Hannibal's head, panting, his arms shaking as he held himself up. The shivery quality of his breathing soon shaped itself into a soft laugh, and he smiled, opening his eyes to look at Hannibal below him. 'We're returning that ladder,' he said.

'I'm afraid I misplaced the receipt,' said Hannibal.

'You didn't lose it, I took it.' Will kissed him, with a lazy slowness that underscored the fact that he'd left Hannibal hanging on purpose. 'God, we're a mess. It's going to take about three hours to get all this paint off.'

'I'm hardly at fault for that.'

'Says the one who _insisted_ on the terrible ladder that nearly beheaded me and then threw me down the stairs,' Will reminded him, rolling his eyes. 'It's going to be a while before I forgive you.' But even so, Will moved, and ended up propped on his elbows between Hannibal's thighs. 'This is one mess I'm happy to take care of, at least.' And Will began to lick clean the dashes of glossy white that he'd left behind, following each long, lapping stroke of his tongue with nuzzling kisses.

Hannibal wove his fingers through Will's hair, making a low sound of approval and gratitude, which became a groan as Will took his cock fully between his lips and bowed his head. Will stayed where he was, his breath held so he could feel Hannibal's cock sheathed to the back of his throat for a moment, before he pulled back again.

Hannibal murmured his name like a prayer, and it didn't matter that both of them looked ridiculous right now, covered in paint and with their clothes a wreck; it didn't matter that Will's knees hurt from kneeling on the hard floor, or that he knew from experience that his current position would give him a crick in the neck. And he knew they'd both be irritable later, with so much to tidy up—the drop cloth would have to hang out to dry before it could be used again, and would thereafter be stiff with such a thick spill of paint, and maybe Hannibal would be fussy about the paint splashed on the wall, after all, and Will was pretty sure the edge of the metal paint tray had taken a chip out of the drywall when he'd bonked into it. But if they could drag themselves out of all the trouble they'd encountered before, a little paint was nothing.

Well. It wasn't a _little_.

Even so.

Hannibal had sat up enough to watch him. Will looked him in the eye, and went back to what he was doing, pausing only to say, 'We taste good together,' just to see the look on Hannibal's face.

This was one of Will's favorite sort of moments; any time they were equally vulnerable, Will felt like he could be himself, do whatever felt right, and Hannibal would welcome it.

But—

'Hannibal,' said Will, his voice already a little scratched from his efforts. 'I think I'm stuck.'

A smile flickered at the corners of his eyes. 'You're what?'

'I think I'm sort of paint-glued to this canvas.'

'I suppose we ought to do something about that.'

About three minutes of half-laughing and cooperative struggling later, Will was no longer adhered to the drop cloth, but the moment had passed.

'I owe you an orgasm,' said Will, picking paint from his nails, as Hannibal moved the damned ladder off of the stairs so they could go up and shower.

'It's not a transaction, Will.'

'Then I at least owe you a shirt.'

Hannibal folded up the ladder with ease and leaned it against the foyer wall. 'Considering your track record when it comes to clothing purchases, I believe I'll let you off the hook.'

Checking the soles of his feet for paint first, Will followed Hannibal upstairs. 'I'll make sure the final paint job looks good, I promise.'

'I trust you,' said Hannibal as he turned on the shower.

'Even after the paint-wrestling?'

'Even after that.'

'But you don't trust me enough to buy my own jeans,' said Will, stepping out of the offending garment in question. When he straightened up, Hannibal stepped up behind him and put his arms around him.

'I do think you look good in them,' said Hannibal. 'Despite my better judgement.'

Will turned and kissed him. 'I love you,' he said, as steam began to fog the mirror behind them. When he pulled back to look at him, Will said with a smirk, 'That color looks good on you, too.'


End file.
